poorly done search focusing on the researcher who had the least political sway.
When I hit the corner of 25th and Cambie I remembered something else. The search results had been clipped to Edwards’s first letter of complaint, but the date of the search hadn’t been entered in the action log attached to the file. So when exactly had the search been done? I picked up speed and headed downhill.
Back in the hotel room I didn’t bother with stretching, another bad decision, but went directly to my briefcase. I pulled out the evidence kit and grabbed the magnifying glass, one of the small, high-powered jobs used by geologists. Then I opened the salmon file and flipped to the back. I looked up at the ceiling, said a brief prayer to the goddess of forensic evidence, then looked down at the reference search. It had been printed on a laser printer rather than on the large-format dot-matrix that the National Science Library used. That meant that someone had logged into the library from a remote location and had searched the database from there. And whoever it was had decided that Edwards was the guy to investigate rather than the infinitely more prestigious Dr. Riesler.
On the top of the page was a header, but the type was so tiny it was unreadable. I pulled the magnifying glass from its case, held my breath, and positioned it over the header: Aquatic Sciences Citation Index search time 7 min 32 sec 1342 h Saturday 13 Oct 2001. Thank you for using Canada’s National Science Library.
I let out a long breath. That’s what I had hoped for. Proof that the file was still active well after Patsy claimed she had returned it to Lydia. Active enough, in fact, for somebody to come in on a Saturday afternoon and conduct the search. To do that, the user had to have a special account with the library — they were charged by the minute for search time — as well as a reasonable knowledge of how the database worked. In my job, it is a comfort to know that nothing in the modern world is free of paperwork.
I smiled. Where there’s paperwork, there’s a paper trail, and no one is better than Sylvia at tracing a paper trail.
chapter five
The Thai Kitchen was up Cambie within walking distance of the hotel. I showered, put on a clean pair of jeans, and pulled on my all-purpose leather jacket. I left the laptop hidden under my shirts but took the file and my briefcase with me. The traffic was still imposing, but it had eased up enough for the cars and trucks to move along at a steady, if slow, pace. I took my time walking up Cambie, checking out the wood-oven pizzerias, upscale Chinese take-outs, and clothing boutiques.
The interior of the restaurant was dark, lit mainly by flickering candle lamps, so it took me a moment to locate Sylvia. She was sitting by the window sipping an amber liquid from a tiny glass. She looked like an exotic gypsy who at any moment might pull out a deck of tarot cards and lay them across the table. I’d expected her to be wan and pale, but from where I stood she looked vibrant, almost excited. I crossed the room and wrapped my arms around her, kissing her Montreal style, once on each cheek, then I slipped into the chair on the other side of the table.
“I thought you weren’t allowed,” I said, nodding to the glass.
“What’s it going to do, kill me? Actually, it’s sherry. Vile drink, but it stimulates the appetite. Not as effective as a joint, but cheaper and more accessible. You look well for a woman still working in the vipers’ nest, although you could use a little blush. I like the hair, though. Very nice.” She reached out and lifted a lock at the side. When Sylvia had left Ottawa my dark, wavy hair had been shoulder length, but I’d recently had it cut short in a layered style that was fashionable, easy to care for, and stayed out of my eyes.
“Yours looks spectacular.” “Well, thanks sweetie. Then I’ll leave it on. I think it goes well with my bone structure, don’t you?” She patted her hair, looking coy, then she caught my expression. I hadn’t realized it was a wig. “Get used to it, babe. If you can’t take the heat get out of the kitchen. Anyway, I’m in remission, sort of. On my last CAT scan the little bugger’d stopped growing.”
“Just like that?” “Apparently they do that sometimes. Might be the radiation, but I’m also off estrogen. Which is a drag, so to speak, because I’ll start to grow a beard. Won’t the undertaker get a surprise.”
I hated these conversations. When I had first met Sylvia, she had been David: brilliant, sensitive, and doing a Ph.D. in the macho world of physics. Over the years, as he gradually went through the process of changing sex, I was witness to the taunts, the threats, and the intolerance of our learned colleagues. It sickened me. A year ago, when she was diagnosed with a tumour embedded deep in the cerebellum, the surgeon had been blithe.
“Probably the hormones,” he’d said. “Guess you shouldn’t have tinkered with God’s work.” And he’d turned and walked out of the examining room. So, while she still had the strength for humour, I couldn’t say the same.
“So what’s that mean… in the long term?” “Who knows. Who cares. Anyway, lighten up. Order a beer. I’ve got lots to tell you, and we have to get through it fast before Elaine the drain gets here.”
“Sylvia — “ “She’s such a downer. She was better for a while — I swear she was bonking someone but she wouldn’t tell me who — but now she’s back to her usual obsessive-compulsive self. Boring. And around me? Too depressing. I don’t need that.”
I smiled. “So things haven’t improved.”
“I tried. Asked her out for lunch a few times. But honestly? Mutual avoidance works for me. I invited her here for you, for old times’ sake, but if she slips and calls me David she’s dead. Of course, being Elaine, she could-n’t make it for dinner. She’s much too busy. But she said she’d come for dessert.”
When the waiter came over he gave his full attention to Sylvia. She was remarkably beautiful as either a man or a woman: fine boned with curly black hair, pale skin, and an eye for dramatic detail. Tonight, she was wearing a red scarf in her hair, a snow white cotton peasant shirt that almost glowed in the dim lights, and, although I hadn’t checked under the table, I assumed she had on her signature tight black jeans with elegant black boots. Like any self-respecting woman she avoided panty hose unless driven to it by some social necessity. I resigned myself to being invisible for the remainder of the evening and passed on my order to her. In record time the squid salad had appeared.
“They know you here?”
She glanced at the waiter disappearing into the kitchen and smiled. “Him? He’s not my type. I like a little bit more on the feminine side.”
That was a change, but I wasn’t sure I wanted the gory details so I busied myself with the salad. After finishing her Ph.D. in physics, Sylvia left the labs to get a second doctorate in Library Science, where the level of tolerance for sexual diversity was higher than in the sciences. She quickly became an expert in large scientific databases and is known for her ability to pluck a single molecule from a sea of information. While officially there is no such thing as a forensic librarian there should be, because Sylvia’s online searches could expose scientific fraud like an x-ray reveals bone. So, while I ate the squid salad Sylvia picked at her food and talked.
“I started with three searches, comprehensive. Riesler, Edwards, and the third guy you named: Jacobson. Edwards looks clean. Only publishes in first-tier juried journals. Doesn’t publish a lot, but he’s consistent. No duplication. The progression of articles looks reasonable, one experiment leading logically to the next. No surprises here.”
“Is he a team player?” “Guarded team player, I’d have to say. He publishes alone, or sometimes with two or three other people, all well regarded. One
